


Our Saturday

by ninamazing



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Torchwood
Genre: Community: bsg_pornbattle, Crossover, F/M, Plot What Plot, bsg_pornbattle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-30
Updated: 2009-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamazing/pseuds/ninamazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Saturday nights at the office are supposed to be theirs, generally; she's lying on top of Sam's shirt and both of them are twisted together halfway like a punctuation mark on hallucinogens.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Saturday

She didn't know where — or how, or into what — to plug the thing. That was the first hurdle. Then it was realizing that he didn't actually need that tank and the goo wasn't life support; either it was a creepy alien stasis prison, or whatever ailed him healed a long time ago.

He didn't answer many of Jack's questions, but when Toshiko saw his brain scan she cried retcon and left it at that. Jack liked him (surprise surprise), and even in spite of that Gwen and Ianto couldn't hate him for long. They let him acclimate, help out a little, get regular clothes, grow back his hair. If he stuck a bit close to Tosh's side, it was only because she met him first — Tosh insisted, to herself and to Owen and to Gwen — and if he flirted only cautiously with everyone else, at least it was enough to keep them mostly quiet about his security clearances.

It's not as if no one on the team has ever taken on a pet project before. In a manner of speaking.

"Owen, I think you're missing the bigger picture," says Gwen now. Tosh curls in closer to the man who popped out of the Hub, and motions for him to be quiet. Saturday nights at the office are supposed to be theirs, generally; she's lying on top of Sam's shirt and both of them are twisted together halfway like a punctuation mark on hallucinogens.

"It's not about him," Gwen continues. Tosh can make out the white lines of Owen's lab coat, in the thin strip of room she can see from behind and underneath the couch. "You're only focusing on this because of Tosh."

"_Tosh_?" Owen snaps, and the bewilderment — the indignance — in his voice forces Tosh's fist to clench, even next to Sam. "Look, I know you think she and her little crush are cute, but you harping me about it is definitely not."

Sam brushes a warm hand over Toshiko's, gently, until her fingers open again.

Gwen's crusading now: "It's that attitude I'm talking about. You're always making her feel second best." As she talks, Sam leans forward slowly to trace the line of Toshiko's throat with one finger; to close his teeth gently around the skin above her collarbone; to tease, softly, with the tip of his tongue. She closes her eyes and arches until she can sense the warm press of his hips against hers.

"Tosh isn't letting her emotions affect her job," Gwen continues. "But you — it's like you're determined to shoot her down in every way possible."

Toshiko tries to narrow her focus to Sam's lean body between her legs, but she still hears the scowl in Owen's voice, still sees it on his face in her mind's eye.

"Bloke hasn't been retconned," he grumbles. "Simple as that. I know there's _some_ wild shit going on with that brain, but it's not retcon. And Tosh _has_ to know that."

"Whatever," Gwen tosses back. Sam has stopped; he's poised above Tosh now without moving, and she doesn't open her eyes to see his expression. She's not certain she can.

"There's more than one way for a person to have lost all his memories," Gwen lectures. "Jack thinks he's clean anyway, and so do I."

"Oh, that right? You know what Jack's thinking now?" Owen's voice is beginning to sound dangerous. Tosh knows that danger well.

Sam's hands fumble their way back to hers, and Toshiko holds on tight. His head drops to the scoop of her neck, nuzzling.

"Maybe she _needs_ someone," Gwen says shrilly. "Maybe we should remember everything that Tosh has done for us and leave her alone to do whatever she needs."

A noiseless chuckle tickles Toshiko's skin. She brings her fingers to hold Sam's head, stroking the places where fuzz is beginning to turn into curls.

"You're full of bollocks, Gwen." A pause. "Bollocks."

In another moment the great hatch rattles closed, leaving only the sound of Sam's breathing and the angry shuffling of someone in the infirmary. Tosh wants to laugh suddenly, and presses Sam's body close.

"You still wet, by any chance?" he mutters in her ear, and Tosh hides her giggle in his shoulder.

"It's still Saturday," she says, wrapping her fingers around him where he's hard. She can look him in the eyes again, and he's smiling at her. "Our Saturday."

He moans in agreement, and kisses her as she slides around him. When she tightens her muscles he lets out a needy breath, a tiny wind across the tip of her nose, and Tosh thinks oddly of the weather changing; he's like a comet, dropped from nowhere to brighten her colder nights. The soft sounds at the back of his throat as he thrusts his hips against her are starbursts, beating between her legs.

He's the man from nowhere, or everywhere. He's making them worth it, the hours of coding and searching and fighting and running. Jack calls him The Stranger, when he's had his coffee, but Toshiko could swear that she's known Sam before.


End file.
